


Simple Truths

by wemadguys



Series: Fictober 2020 [3]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:42:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26832373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wemadguys/pseuds/wemadguys
Summary: At her first society event after returning from London, Phryne solves a mystery of a strangely personal nature.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher & Prudence Stanley, Phryne Fisher & Rosie Sanderson, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Series: Fictober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952428
Comments: 6
Kudos: 95





	Simple Truths

**Author's Note:**

> ughhhhh this one took me forever to finish.  
> day three prompt: "you did this?"
> 
> do be prepared for mentions of colonialism and depictions of cultural/geographic ignorance.

Despite that – or perhaps because – she can hold her own at any venue in any part of town, Phryne does not mind attending the occasional charity ladies’ luncheon. Yes, the company is usually a bit disapproving and the food a tad bland, but the champagne always flows freely, and it never hurts to foster new connections. She is keen to escort her Aunt Prudence to this particular event as well, as it is being held to raise money for girls' education. 

But it doesn’t take Phryne long to notice a strange pattern of behavior amongst her fellow guests.

She first catches wind of it on her way out of the powder room. She notices the not-at-all subtle Denice Morrigan whispering loudly to the young Alice DeMill while looking right at Phryne; as a lady is wont to do, Phryne casually wanders into earshot to hear what they’re saying. It is perplexing when, rather than the usual disapproval of her behavior or dress, she hears, "...and on a tiger no less!"

Odd. She saunters closer to hear more, but a passing waiter offers her champagne and the two women look up, catching sight of her – and their eyes go wide as saucers. That settles it: they are indeed whispering about Phryne.

It wouldn't be the first time the rumor mill has churned out something outlandish about her. Rather than bothering her, she tends to find such palavering amusing and usually appreciates the creativity. And, the more wild and unbelievable the stories, the more plausible deniability she has for the things that are true – the things that, for one reason or another, she'd rather not have reach every corner of polite (or impolite) society.

Except she comes to find that Alice and Denice are not the only two to have such strange tales of her. During the first course of the sit-down meal, the stern matron sitting across from Phryne openly stares at her as she tries to eat. She continues to eye her long enough that Phryne is prompted to snark, "does something about my visage offend you, Mrs. Bennington?"

Peculiarly, all Mrs. B responds is, "your skin doesn't look very tanned." Phryne means to inquire further, but Aunt Prudence on her left side suddenly demands her full attention, and the moment passes.

She engages herself in interesting conversations with a host of intelligent ladies throughout the afternoon – the Mrs. Bs and the Aunt Prudences are not the only attendees at functions supporting women's education – but she also does a bit of sleuthing. Three minutes with Beatrice Littlebottom, the most incorrigible gossip in the Antipodes, provide a valuable clue. “Why, Phryne dear,” Beatrice intones, “you must tell me about how you and your dashing paramour followed a herd of elephants across the continent! Enjoying the sights and each other all the way, no doubt."

Surely she doesn't mean Europe? Phryne gives her a bland, evaluative smile in response, deciding to let the woman think anything she wants about the truth of the matter. Leaning nearly comically hard into pomposity, Phryne exclaims, "My, I've only been back in the country for a week! I can't imagine where all these stories about me have come from."

"Phryne, dear," Beatrice condescends, her face contorted into a look of pity as subtle as her wit, "you really can't expect a scandalous escapade like that to escape our notice."

What Phryne _really_ can't do is understand from whom this preposterous rumor originated. Normally, stories about her are tamer than the reality; she’s a little perturbed that these imaginations have eclipsed the intrigue of her own experiences, and she wonders who’s responsible.

Moving among groups of women with the singular focus she usually saves for hunting down a murderer, Phryne attempts to find out. 

Only one truth becomes clear almost immediately: the guests at this party assume that she's just returned from Africa rather than Europe. Besides that, there appears to be no common narrative. One group she talks to thinks she spent her time away tracking wildebeests with a young and rakish safari guide, while another gives conflicting accounts of how she helped a giraffe give birth. One woman even claims to believe she had been living with a pride of lions.

She tries to suss out from each group where they received their intel. Maria Halpern says she had been discussing it with Lottie Remington, chair of the symphony board; Lottie claims to have heard something of the tale from Myrcella Blankenship, treasurer of the Melbourne Lions club; and Mrs. Blankenship herself is certain she became aware of it from a friend on the Cheshire Academy school board. It’s maddening; every lead Phryne encounters seems only to turn up another that leads to one more – like some sort of ouroboros of idle gossip. 

She decides to take a break after a while to regroup. There must be some purpose, some strategy, for this rumour with no origin and no consensus. And why is it that the news seems to have traveled from one ladies’ charity board to another? 

She’s still thinking when she is startled by a voice, a person, addressing her. "Miss Fisher," Rosie Sanderson greets calmly, clearly not at all surprised to be in front of her.

This is a larger affair than is custom for these events, and Phryne supposes that even through her investigation she has not come close to greeting every guest. She even distantly remembers Aunt Prudence telling her that Rosie has begun to run in her charity circles. Nonetheless, she is shocked into silence for a moment.

Eventually, she gains the composure to reply, "Rosie!" with outward cheer, though it does sound a bit frantic to her own ears. "I had no idea you were here!" She clears her throat and her next words are calmer. "I would have said hello."

She _would_ have. Probably. Maybe. It’s just that Phryne has maintained less awkward relationships with men whose proposals she’s rejected. There is simply something about Rosie’s presence that brings a reminder of the life that Jack once lived – one driven by tradition, obligation, and devotion – that makes her uncomfortable in the extreme.

"Yes," Rosie says, her tone of voice blandly polite and a touch sanctimonious, "well, I've heard so many tales of this African adventure of yours that I feel I've caught up with you already."

As she’s been doing all afternoon, Phryne smiles to avoid discussing the strange rumor.

"It's funny,” Rosie continues, “because I had heard from your aunt at a function for the hospital board that you'd flown for the continent instead. And then shortly after that, I had lunch with Jack's mother, and she informed me that he'd sailed to London on holiday. I was sure he'd gone to meet you.” She rolls her eyes in apparent self-recrimination. “I don’t know where I came up with the idea.”

Rosie’s intel turns out to be the break Phryne needs; indeed, everything is starting to take shape in her mind, and she wants to go confront her suspected culprit right away – but there’s something she must do first.

“Rosie,” she begins in a voice that is trying too hard to sound casual, “what exactly have you heard about this African holiday of mine?”

She seems to think about the question for a moment. “Well, I was told that you nursed an ill gazelle back to health.”

Phryne avoids eye contact and rubs her forefinger around the rim of her empty champagne glass as she asks, “have you ever heard of Occam’s razor?"

"Of course,” Rosie answers with a puzzled expression. "It means that the simplest explanation is the truth."

"Yes, well, I’ve always thought it the best approach to take when trying to make sense of society gossip." She pauses, smiling slightly in embarrassment. She wants to give Rosie some version of the truth, wants her to know that she's more astute than she believes. "After all, I couldn't even tell you what a gazelle looks like, let alone how to cure it of influenza."

Rosie gives her a thoughtful look, saying nothing.

Hoping this means she understands her, Phryne excuses herself and heads back into the fray.

It only takes a quick sweep of the room to spot her man.

"Aunt P.!" She exclaims as she approaches the woman and links arms with her forcefully. For the benefit of her aunt's companion, Mrs. Tilda, Phryne adds, "I feel I've barely spoken with you all afternoon."

Aunt Prudence, who eyes her warily, points out that, "we arrived together, Phryne dear, and sat side by side for the meal."

Phryne smiles outwardly sweetly at that, but she’s sure her aunt can see the steel hidden behind it. "Yes, but I've spent so much time today discussing my recent sojourn to the African colonies that time's just gotten away from me."

The slightest tilt of her aunt's head, her tell, is all she needs to see to be certain. She begs Mrs. Tilda's leave and pulls her aunt to the side, dropping her arm and squaring off with her. Always a formidable opponent, Aunt Prudence crosses her arms in defiance.

"Aunt P.," Phryne starts, affection for the old bat warring with her extreme irritation, "you did this?"

The woman darts her eyes around, still scrambling for deniability. "I...don't know what you mean."

Phryne's ready for this. Rosie may have pointed her in the right direction by mentioning the hospital board, but Aunt P.'s own history says it all. "In 1920, Guy followed that young flamenco dancer back to Argentina, and you told everyone he went to a health spa in Geneva."

Finally admitting defeat, Aunt Prudence uncrosses her arms and goes on the defensive. "You make it sound so tawdry! I don't outright announce anything. I find the most hard-of-hearing gossip I know, and I _hint_. How they respond to those hints is entirely up to them."

Phryne scoffs. "What exactly did you hint? I've heard countless tales of myself today, each more implausible than the last."

Looking almost chastened now, Aunt P. reluctantly mutters, "I whispered into Lyla Bergendale's bad ear that I had received a letter from you saying you were having a marvelous time on safari." 

Phryne can't help it: she laughs out loud. "Aunt P., why would you plot such a thing? Going to London to help settle my parents' affairs is perhaps the most socially acceptable venture I've undertaken since – well, ever, now that I think about it. Why would you want to lie about that?"

Sighing, Aunt Prudence explains, "well, sometime after you'd gone, word got out that a certain detective inspector had taken an unexpected leave of absence from the Victorian Constabulary and was seen boarding a ship to Europe soon after. Rumors were rampant that he'd followed you."

"And you were looking to save my reputation? Aunt P., I–"

"Not yours, dear. I'm no fool. It's his reputation that concerns me. Some people will use any excuse to unseat someone from power and replace them with another who will carry out their own interests."

"I’m touched by your concern,” Phryne tells her honestly, “but Jack is a grown man. He can take care of himself."

Aunt P. eyes her dubiously. "You told me just the other evening that it was your intention to conduct yourselves discreetly. Why bother with even that if you’re so confident?"

If Phryne were the blushing type, she would be doing so now. She'd invited her entire Melbourne clan over for a welcome-home dinner the other night, complete with drinks and dancing; Aunt P. had forgotten her stole on her way out and had caught Phryne rather indelicately blocking Jack's access to the coat rack with her body. And her mouth. And her tongue. Poor Jack had looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Not that either is under the impression that him following her to England had slipped anyone in her circle's notice. 

Phryne doesn't really believe that his association with her will hurt his career, but she isn't interested in inviting scrutiny. After all, the truth is hers alone to know. And Jack's.

And what a lovely, private, life-affirming truth it is.

"Very well, Aunt P. I see the merits of your little deception. But in the future, I'd appreciate you leaving the handling of my affairs – in every sense of the word – to me."

Her Aunt smiles at her slightly and acquiesces. "I will try."

The matter settled, Phryne feels lighter and ready for the day to carry on. She gasps, realizing her investigation has caused her to lose track of the hour. She waves a waiter over and asks him.

"Quarter to three, Miss."

"Perfect," she says. "I'm right on time."

"For what, Phryne?" Her aunt asks. "My driver isn't due back until half past three."

"Oh, did I not tell you, Aunt P.? I've arranged for my own transportation home. And he should be here any minute."

"He…?" Aunt Prudence asks, perplexed. Phryne raises her eyebrows in expectation and Aunt P. soon makes the connection. "Honestly, Phryne!" she scolds, clearly exasperated with her. "What did we just discuss?"

"Whatever it was will have to wait,” she deflects. “Maybe we can bring it up again over dinner this week? I know Mr. Butler has missed you and your refined pallet’s praises of his cooking.” 

"Very well," Aunt P. concedes, knowing she's being thwarted but enjoying the compliment nonetheless. "I await your formal invitation."

"Excellent!" Phryne responds before leaning in to kiss her aunt on the cheek. "Goodbye, Aunt P."

As she turns to go, she hears her aunt call out, "be careful, Phryne."

 _No promises, Aunt P._ , she thinks but does not stop to say. _I’m simply too interesting for that._

***

Rosie leaves the party early to go await her cab outside. She leans against a tree and ruminates on her conversation with Phryne Fisher. Occam’s razor, she’d said. That’s rich coming from a woman who likely crafts at least one elaborate scheme before breakfast each day. She and Jack are always unravelling convoluted mysteries in their investigations. So why bring up simplicity?

Her mind moves in circles trying to make sense of all the details. She is so distracted that she does not notice the motorcar winding around the circular drive until it is parked at the front of the large home. A police motorcar.

A blink after she realizes it must be him, Jack emerges from the vehicle. He looks the same as the last time Rosie saw him: tall, lean, and as frustratingly inscrutable as ever. He walks around to the side of the vehicle that faces the large home and leans against the passenger door – as if settling in to wait.

Jack would always say that war had changed him, and maybe that is true. Either way, his sullenness after he came home had gotten under her skin. Could he not see all that life had to offer if only he'd just reach for it? Did he not understand the gift that was the sturdy walls of their clean and modern home? Did he not see the acclaim, the comfort, the success to be had from rising in the ranks of the constabulary? She’d thought him lost, thought his spirit, his fight, gone.

It was only after she realized how he felt about Miss Fisher that she saw the error in those assumptions. Here Rosie had been building their life from the ground up, living for what was right in front of her and thinking Jack had been doing the same. In reality, Jack’s head had always been in the clouds, his eyes on the ground but his arms stretched up toward the constellations.

As if summoned, his very own north star comes bounding out of the front doors and down the stone steps. When she reaches Jack, he stays her momentum with hands on the lapels of her open trench coat.

There had been something in Miss Fisher’s tone today that felt sincere, as if she had been conveying a hidden message to her. _Intuition or observation?_

She had wondered if she was trying to say something about her trip, if she was trying to tell her that she met Jack in Africa instead of in Europe. But she also could not imagine Jack lying to his mother about the continent he was sailing to.

They are too far away to overhear, but the truth slides into place for Rosie as she watches them. With a rueful laugh, she realizes that Miss Fisher was right: it is all so very simple. The stories about Africa are a ruse. They met in Europe just as it had appeared to her in the first place. For some grand, romantic endeavor, no doubt, but nothing more scandalous than any tryst out of wedlock.

There is even something simple in the way they look at each other now, in the way Miss Fisher holds her hand out to Jack and in the way he drops his keys into her open palm. The air in their lungs and the ground beneath their feet may not be enough to sustain either, but there is nothing complicated about what they share between them.

Occam’s razor indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
